It would be extreme generosity to credit Booty Call with anything other than popularizing a dubious catchphrase. And that's too bad, because some imagination could have pushed it toward the demented where-the-night-takes-you logic of Martin Scorcese's After Hours, another experiment in wee-hours absurdism conducted in the laboratory of New York City. The fruitless quest for condoms might be genius material for a lowbrow farce, but not with these people calling the shots. Screenwriters Takashi Bufford and Bootsie might have taunted these frustrated playas by forever dangling their quarry just out of reach, which would have doubled as a mild comment on the folly of their booty-or-bust mentality. But instead of throwing roadblocks in their path, the writers resort to misogyny by blaming the booty blockade on the capricious women -- sketched either as teasing prude (Tamala Jones) or insatiable freak (Vivica Fox) -- who balk at the imperfections of each newly procured prophylactic. (And for all its jokes about stamina, the film requires a pointless hospital scene at the end to last even a scant 70 minutes). Booty Call is maliciously indifferent about so many details that only the most insulting can really be named. In fact, even citing its near misses is too generous, since that involves the film in a discussion too discerning for such over-simplified vulgarity. Even though Booty Call qualified as a minor hit and zeitgeist moment, its only real score was to provide an early showcase for Jamie Foxx, who would find more satisfying conquests down the road.